


The Talk

by thanksforthecrumb



Series: Frarytales [2]
Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1688774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary finds out she's pregnant and tells Francis. It's not technically part two or in a series, so it doesn't matter if you read the AU fic I wrote before it. It does take place in the same world, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Talk

**Author's Note:**

> I posted all my (and my sister's) head canons on tumblr, so I would encourage you to [click here](http://tobyregblog.tumblr.com/post/86826227349/au-reign-head-canons-woot) in order to read them. My sister tells me some of you may not read the head canons, so I (again) [urge you to click here to read the head canons.](http://tobyregblog.tumblr.com/post/86826227349/au-reign-head-canons-woot) They're kind of a little important so you know what's happening, because I don't explain them in the fic. Plus, I don't know, they're kind of fun.

She is in a daze, stumbling through the bathroom door to reach the living room. She bangs her foot on the swinging door, but the pain doesn’t register. Her mind is blank except for the numb disbelief. The world is spinning and impossible to navigate. Through her haze, her eyes lock on a shock of curly blond hair just visible over the couch. Francis.

She totters to him, gripping the back of the couch he sits on hard. She clears her throat, willing her voice to work. “Francis,” she says without looking down at him.

He doesn’t look up. He has earbuds plugged firmly into his ears, his eyes intent on a YouTube video about carving “authentic Tolkien swords” or something of equal nerdy value.

“Francis,” she says again.

When he doesn’t look up, she pulls an earbud out of its resting place in his ear. “Francis.”

He pauses the video, looking up at her with wide, slightly irritated, very confused eyes. “What?”

“Francis, we need to talk.”

At those five words, he pales to the tips of his ears. His eyes seem to grow two sizes, and Mary swears she sees tears forming, covering his eyes in a clear sheen. He sits straight on the couch, yanking the remaining earbud out of his ear. “Mary—” he tries to speak, but chokes on his voice. “Mary, I love you. You have to know that. I love you so much. And if I don’t always show it…I—I love you. A lot. You’re the best person I’ve ever met, and I—I just…love you. More than I can say, or…I love you. Please don’t end this—us. Please. I love you. I’ll be better. I promise. I’ll start coming home early, no matter what Jim says. I will. I’ll spend more time with you, and—”

“Francis!” she cuts through his haphazard blur of words.

“What?” He looks at her, eyes huge and pleading. His mouth is curved down in a frown, his chin quivering every few seconds.

“I’m not breaking up with you. I love you too, stupid.”

He sits back. “Oh. For a minute—actually, for longer than a minute—I thought…I thought…you know.” He smiles warily, chuckling anxiously. “I’m glad. I mean, yeah. That’s really, really good. I thought—”

“I still have to talk to you.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Sorry. Go ahead.”

Mary inhales deeply. She leans over the couch, resting her elbows on the back of it, trying to feign some sense of normality. “Francis, I…I don’t know how to put this. You know what? I’m just going to go with it.” She swallows and tucks her hair behind her ears, pursing her lips. “I’m—I’m pregnant.”

If she wasn’t so scared and nervous, Mary would laugh at his expression. It’s absolutely priceless, his mouth agape, his eyes practically the size of watermelons. She offers him a tiny, shy smile.

“Are—are you sure? I mean, you’re _definitely_ pregnant?”

She rolls her eyes, her stomach still fluttering. “Yes, Francis. I’m pregnant. _Definitely_ pregnant. What other kind is there?”

He laughs, relieved and worried at the same time. “I don’t know. I mean, you know, in movies the girls sometimes think they’re pregnant, but they’re actually not and—”

“What have you been watching? _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_?”

He looks mildly offended. “It was on ABC. I was bored.” He waves a hand quickly, dissolving the conversation. “That’s not what we should be focusing on. We—”

Her giddy laughter cuts through his words. “ _Oh_! Yeah. Yeah, you just don’t want to explain why you were watching chick flicks. I get it, Francis. I get it. They’re fun.” She breaks into laughter again, but Francis is having none of it.

“ _Mary_ ,” he admonishes.

“What?”

“Can we get back to the fact that you’re _pregnant_? The fact that you have a freaking human inside your stomach?” He tents his fingers. “Because that’s the part of this that has me most interested. I don’t know about you, obviously, but I imagine that—”

“Shut up, idiot,” Mary mutters as she leans in to kiss him. He is the reason they’re in this mess, and what a beautiful mess it is. He’s so damn adorable, so damn attractive. Damn.

His eyebrows shoot up and there’s only a slight pause before he falls deeply into the kiss, slipping his tongue between her lips. Mary’s fistful of his shirt twists and tightens around his collar, pulling him forward so that he has no choice but to lean into her. It’s a bit awkward, with Mary leaning down over the couch and Francis sitting tall to reach her mouth from his position on the sofa. But Mary doesn’t care because—as he pointed out—she’s carrying a human in her stomach and it’s because of _him_. It is his child— _their_ child—in her belly, _their_ child who will make an appearance in about nine months, _their_ child who will carry his Valois curls, _their_ child who will carry her Stuart eyes. She is carrying a tiny piece of him, she realizes, and she reaches down to lock her fingers in his soft curls, not paying attention when he makes a strange buzzing noise to tell her she’s pulling his hair. _I love you, you damn little blond freak_ , she thinks with a smile.

They break out of the kiss slowly, Francis looking up at her, his blue eyes wide in something like awe, which is insane. As if she’s something anyone should be in awe of. “Pregnant,” he murmurs in wonder. “ _Pregnant_. You’re _pregnant_.”

She smiles, getting used to the idea as it leaves his lips. Pregnant, and soon she won’t be pregnant but a mother. _The_ mother. _The_ mother of _his_ child. Damn. She can get used to that, especially when she pictures the walks in the park, taking turns pushing the stroller… She beams at the sickeningly sweet probable future she sees. “Yeah…crazy, right?”

“There’s only one thing for it, then,” he says matter-of-factly. “We’ll have to get married.”

And just like that she can feel her smile sliding off her face. Her nervous butterflies that had transformed into bouncing joy at his amazement and her prospects of the future morphed into cold, hard fear and rancor. “What?”

“We’ll have to get married. You know my mom. She’d go insane if we had a kid before we got married. She’s really religious.” He glances at her quizzically, as if surprised she hadn’t known that. Which she had, thank you very much.

She brings her hands off his chest and up to her eyes. “Francis, I don’t—”

“Don’t…don’t what?” His voice is soft but becomes louder and more urgent, his need to know growing rapidly. His eyes get big and he pushes a knee against the couch as leverage, rising to his standing height before her. “What’s wrong with marriage?”

She turns away, ignoring the warm pull of his hand on his elbow, a plea for her to look at him. “The only thing that’s wrong is the fact that it wouldn’t be because we love each other.” She pauses, before clearing her throat. “God, I can’t believe I’m using _The Hunger Games_ to justify my point…but do you remember when Katniss suggested that she and Peeta get married in the second book?”

Francis looks a bit lost. “Yeah. I mean, yeah.”

“And remember what Peeta’s reaction was?”

“Um…I think?”

She exhales loudly, either exasperated that she has to explain what Peeta’s reaction was, or exasperated that she’s using pop culture in such a serious conversation. Francis decides on the former.

“Well, he’d wanted to marry Katniss basically his whole life, remember? And when she finally did offer marriage, he wasn’t very interested because—”

“Yeah. Yeah, I remember. Haymitch said he’d wanted marriage, but not like that.”

“Yeah,” Mary whispers. “Well, I don’t want marriage like this.”

“What do you mean? You’re pregnant—”

“Francis, you don’t get it! I don’t want to get married because we had sex before marriage and that’s not ‘proper.’ I don’t want this kid to be the reason we decide to spend our lives together.” She closes her eyes and kneads her temple with both hands. “I don’t want a fucking shotgun wedding, Francis. I want a wedding because we’ve finally decided that living together isn’t enough, we’ve finally decided that it’s time to settle down.”

She would’ve kept going, would’ve kept spouting out reasons, if Francis hadn’t stopped her with a loud burst of laughter. She looks at him questioningly. “Mary, _you_ don’t get it! You really don’t. I _love_ you, damn it. Jesus Christ, how could you not…” He laughs again, interrupting himself. “I want to marry you because I love you, Mary. Not because we had premarital sex. Oh my God. You—you actually think I _care_ about that? Hey. Listen. If you don’t want to get married now, I mean, that’s fine. I just assumed, since it was already going to happen, we might as well do it now.”

Her grin returns, slowly, as she thinks over his words. “‘Since it was already going to happen’?” She slaps him lightly on the head, his curls dampening the blow. “You’re cocky.”

“No, I’m honest.” He grabs her wrist as it goes back to her jean’s pocket after hitting him, pulling her onto the couch.

She tumbles into him roughly, using him as a cushion. “Hey!” she protests as she flips over. “You can’t do that anymore; I’m pregnant.”

She’d meant it as a joke, but the color drained out of Francis’s face faster than a kid sucking the juice out of a cheap popsicle. “Oh. Oh my _God_. Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Is—is the baby hurt? Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Mary. Are you sure you’re okay? Do we need to go to the hospital or something? Holy crap. I’m going to be the worst father,” he worries, obsessively running his hands over her stomach, staring up at her guiltily.

She lays a hand over his, halting his unintentional belly massage. “Francis. _Francis_. I’m fine. It’s all going to be fine.”

She’s touched by his concern, if a bit annoyed. But whatever. Let him fuss. It’s kind of nice, anyway. Although she doesn’t really appreciate the impromptu massage.

And fuss he does, kissing her on the forehead and neck gently and in quick succession, breathing apologies into her hair, and sweet, sweet nothings. How beautiful their child will be, how beautiful she is. “I love you, Mary. I love you so, so much.”

She caresses his hair, looking at him through her lashes. The two are falling asleep, splayed over each other, on the lumpy couch. Her leg is getting a bit cramped and she fights the urge to move it, not wanting to wake Francis. But he’s still awake. He sits bolt upright, rocking the couch and making Mary throw him a dangerous look. Just when she’d started to forget her leg. “I just thought of something,” he says.

“ _What_?” she asks dryly. She is in no mood to be woken up. But then, she never is. Whatever. She blames it on the hormones. Never mind that she’s probably only a few days pregnant. She’s got an excuse for perpetual crankiness. Why not use it?

“What will we name it? Um, her? Him? _The baby_.” Francis’s voice is grave and rushed, like he doesn’t want to disturb her but he needs to. His eyes are frantic, his hands motioning quickly.

Well, she’s awake, so she might as well answer his question sincerely. She thinks about it for a moment. She’s kind of always liked the name Colin for a boy, and Thalia for a girl. Or they could always go the traditional route and name the kid after its grandparents or parents. But she doesn’t really want to do that…She looks over at Francis, a sly smile on her lips, one eyebrow lowered a bit, to give her a mischievous appearance. He’s waiting for her, a cute mix of anticipation and curiosity. She wonders what names he has in mind, because he undoubtedly has a few chosen already. Shit, he’s probably planned out every name for every potential child. She pauses, making him wrinkle his brow in frustration.

“Will you just _tell_ me? God, Mary. You’re killing me.”

Her smile grows, enjoying his need to hear her suggestion. She only makes him wait a moment longer, knowing that if he withheld information from her she’d go crazy. 

“I always thought Francis was a girl’s name,” she says.


End file.
